


A Sweet Surrender

by BritaniaVance



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Daydreaming, Drabble, F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 12:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3691863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BritaniaVance/pseuds/BritaniaVance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Commander finds himself feeling more vulnerable than he would like when in the presence of the Herald, and despite his failings he is surprisingly content with this new feeling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sweet Surrender

Her smirk ignites a smile, creeping over his lips like an unfamiliar shroud settling over his skin. It comes easy and his limbs relax at the sight of her.

She shrugs everything off with a quip and sly flirtatious comments he believes must be cemented in some truth, despite her inner pleasure at watching him squirm beneath a growing blush. He can feel the scarlet creep up his neck and pool at his cheeks, which he can blame on the cold… for now.

She hides her uncertainty well, and though she masks her concern with sarcastic remarks, he knows she feels them in full — her brief, troubled glances at the war table are a testament to that. But the fact that she seeks him out in these miniscule moments, like a beacon of comfort amid the sea of expectant eyes watching her, waiting, while he looks on encouragingly, awaiting her next clever comment, inspires him with some foolish hope. She can save herself, but she would like for him to notice.

It is in these fleeting moments that she squirms — of the pleasurable variety — and for a brief instant, she is shy and she lets him watch. Momentarily flushed, her eyes lock on his, while the others are too busy awaiting her orders to take note. She clears her throat, assuming her title like a possessed artifact that grants her the power to overcome personal fears and notions of inadequacy, of feeling too small to lead a following so large… and in a way, she _does_ possess such a thing. 

He watches as she regards her left hand, a limb now rendered  _other_ despite its still having her skin. Its sickly green glow is sometimes mirrored in her eyes, in irises of a more forgiving green — softer, paler, more  _of this_ earth. He knows how it feels, how heavy it is to have a body that does not entirely belong to you but to something larger and infinitely more mysterious than yourself. His own hands still shake with the pain sometimes. The gloves help, a little. And so does she.

A smirk remains on her lips, supple and inviting on a canvas of freckled skin as she stands poised before him, daggers in hand, awaiting his strike. She had asked, back at Haven, for assistance in combat. As a noble, she suddenly found herself lacking, never having experienced the unstoppable movement of battle until her near death experience in reaching the Inquisition’s initial humble refuge. She refused to let her title continue to dictate her person, and determined to take her fate into her own hands — her own cursed or holy hands, she had yet to decide — she asked for his advice, his counsel, or perhaps one of his men to help her. Without thinking, he had accepted her offer and carried out the request himself, and even still, after weeks of practice, sparring between dalliances all over Thedas, she returned to him again and again, and he would hide his smile and as they got down to work…

Her hands were poised now, awaiting his next move, her eyes darting all over, watching his every limb for some semblance of a sign, her smirk never fading. Some part of him likes her eyes on him, watching expectantly, and he keeps her there for as long as he can, before the scarlet takes over his skin and consumes him whole in childish, bashful blushing.

He strikes. She parries. She blocks. Counterattack. He blocks right back.

Her smirk widens, one corner ascending more than the other, one eye nearly winking at him, and he can feel the heat beneath his skin take hold of him, temper his bones into warm molds of malleable steel, still strong but pliable and weak to her good graces. 

He strikes again, wondering if one of his recruits would be less merciful, perhaps a better teacher. The thought inspires a blow harder than he intends, and he is just as taken aback as she is. He does not _wish_ to harm her, but she needs to learn how to defend herself, she _wants_ to. Her smile falters, her eyes widen in surprise, and she staggers back. Determination possesses her and the look in her eyes is more than he could have anticipated. His body is now a house to warring fire and ice as he watches her, blocking her attacks with equal fervor as he is fighting some inner urge to surrender and draw her close, take her in, and-

She pounces again - his stance faltering, his footing unsure - as she takes over him with a knife at his throat. The cool blade graces his neck, but the closeness of her face is what stills him, her breath on his cheek. She laughs as she retreats, removing her blade and sweeping backward into a bow of dramatic theatrics. He laughs as a smirk takes over her lips, first sweeping one corner of her mouth upward before it bewitches her mouth entirely.

His laugh fades into uncertainty, as she resumes her ready position – not because it is no longer amusing, not because he isn’t surprised, because isn’t _proud_ of her, because he certainly is… but because he realizes he needs to know how to better defend _himself_. He busies his mouth by swiping at it with the back of his hand. He cannot let these smiles get the better of him, and yet they find him at every turn. With each conjuring, he finds it harder, with every instance he finds more of himself wishing to succumb, to surrender. Part of him wants to break down the walls he built so tirelessly at Kirkwall and find a part of himself he might have lost or perhaps never had. She’s not like him, but she makes him want to find out what else he is unsure of, what parts of him are hidden or were locked away long ago.

But there is an Inquisition that begs her faith and guidance, as well as its recruits that require his commanding hand. And still, she requires him just as much as the others, but she should not take precedence. She is… he does not quite know what she is to him, if anything, but a saccharine sort of weakness he is becoming all too sweet on.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a drabble I wrote in line with "New Vocations", which may or may not get a new chapter. In any case, some more insight into the Cullen/Trevelyan relationship.  
> Thanks! Enjoy ;)


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